Lovers' Lane Waitresses' Late-Night Counter Scissoring

The last customer shuffled out at 2:17 a.m., the bell above the door giving a tired jingle that sounded more like a sigh of relief. Riley flipped the lock, killed the neon OPEN sign, and let the heavy silence of the empty diner settle over them. Only the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant tick of the kitchen clock remained.

Lena stood at the far end of the long front counter, rag in hand, wiping the same spot in slow circles. Her pale blue uniform dress hugged the generous curve of her hips and the heavy swell of her breasts, the top two buttons undone from the heat of the long shift. Riley watched her from the register, black ink curling down her toned arms, the snake tattoo that disappeared beneath her sleeve always drawing Lena’s eyes when she thought Riley wasn’t looking. For weeks the tension had thickened between them—brushes of fingers while refilling coffee pots, lingering stares across the pie case, the way Riley’s smirk would make Lena’s thighs press together under her skirt.

Now they were alone. Completely, dangerously alone.

Riley sauntered down the length of the counter, hips rolling with that cocky bad-girl swagger. She plucked the rag from Lena’s fingers and tossed it aside.

“I’ve been thinking about these thighs for weeks,” Riley said, voice low and rough. Her palm slid boldly up the outside of Lena’s right leg, pushing the hem of the uniform dress higher. “Every time you bend over the booth to wipe it down, all I can picture is them wrapped around my face. Or my hips. Or both.”